


some love, small enough to fit inside the cracks

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Death, P.T. Barnum has a husband and a wife., Phillip/Phineas/Charity is the ultimate OT3., Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, So hopefully everyone will find something that works for them., This is a veritable potpourri of genres, and depictions of PTSD, and everything in-between., here., warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 05:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17135771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: 50 prompts; Barlyle style.





	some love, small enough to fit inside the cracks

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there- me, again.
> 
> The spike of activity in this tag has warmed my heart many times over, and I want all of you to know that it is your kindness, your passion, and your enthusiasm that inspires me to keep writing, even when certain voices in my head are vehemently opposed and adamant that nothing I do matters. 
> 
> From the bottom of my heart, _thank you_. For the kudos, the bookmarks, and the incredible comments you take the time to leave on my work, and the works of every other content creator in this fandom. You are my motivation, and I could not do this without you. 
> 
> This collection of prompts was taken from [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6350086). I intended- honest I did- to stick to the single sentence theme, but, wanting to spare your poor eyes some truly gargantuan and monstrous run-on sentences, I bent the rules, a bit. 
> 
> An extra special thanks to [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus/pseuds/Schizanthus), A.K.A., the lovely mod of the [AskCarlyle blog](https://askcarlyle.tumblr.com/), for her helpful suggestions and support throughout the writing process. 
> 
> And, [The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting) for her enthusiasm, and her truly wonderful little sketch inspired by prompt #33. I shall cherish it always. 
> 
> The title is a lyric from the Amanda Palmer song, "Astronaut". Which a certain someone may have made a [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pv7eOS8vw8) featuring.

 

 

 

**un.**

 

_Ring_

 

Phillip's middle finger has born a ring engraved with the crest of the Carlyle family Phillip's entire adult life.

Until Phineas Taylor Barnum gifts Phillip with a velvet box containing a shining silver band.

 

 

 

 

**deux.**

 

_Hero_

 

P.T. tells Phillip that Phillip is a hero, and all that Phillip can think in response, the sensation of smoke still wrapped like heavy chains around his lungs, is, _No, Phin,_ ** _you_** _are._

 

 

 

 

**trois.**

 

_Memory_

 

On the coldest winter nights, Phineas builds a big, roaring fire in the fireplace, layers blankets and quilts on the bed, and cuddles as close to Phillip underneath them as possible, wanting the heat of Phillip's body and the soft flutters of Phillip's breath on his skin to remind him that he's no longer shivering in an alley, lips purple and fingertips white.

 

 

 

 

**quatre.**

 

_Box_

 

Reeling, Phillip takes a step backward, foot bumping into a box, heart thumping, thumping, thumping in his ears as Phineas regards him with unbridled _want_ shining in his eyes and whispers, "She deserved to know that I've fallen for someone else."

 

 

 

 

**cinq.**

 

_Run_

 

Phineas Barnum has never run as fast in his life as he does when a protestor approaches Phillip with a torch in hand.

 

 

 

 

**six.**

 

_Hurricane_

 

Phineas Taylor Barnum is a hurricane that sweeps through Phillip Carlyle's life, carelessly ripping the foundations of everything that Phillip has ever known from the ground, and demolishing the cage that held Phillip prisoner.

A windstorm of soul-penetrating stares, seductive promises, and exploratory, _possessive_ handslipstongueteeth that burns Phillip's skin.

 

 

 

 

**sept.**

 

_Wings_

 

In bed with P.T., Phillip's mind will sometimes wander to his childhood pet, a lovely little dove with clipped wings who was never allowed to leave her cage. And, as P.T.'s callused fingers trace configurations of wings on Phillip's shoulder blades, Phillip knows, and feels, and _lives_ true freedom, and wishes he could have spared his dove the tragedy of never knowing what it is to fly.

 

 

 

 

**huit.**

 

_Cold_

 

Phillip returns from the Carlyle estate, eyes hollow with misery, wry smirk twisting bruised and bloodied lips, blood trickling down his brow, and hands nearly frozen in a horrified Phineas's grasp.

 

 

 

 

**neuf.**

 

_Red_

 

Clutching fistfuls of satiny crimson, Phillip pulls Barnum into him, lips crashing against the older man's as the red, red roses Barnum bought for him are compressed between them, sending soft petals drifting in graceful arcs to the floor.

 

 

 

 

**dix.**

 

_Drink_

 

"Do you remember," Phillip muses, glass raised to eye-level as if innocuously examining its contents, "when you plied me with shots to convince me to join your circus?"

P.T. splutters into his own glass, nearly choking on his mouthful of Scotch.

 

 

 

 

**onze.**

 

_Midnight_

 

The tents are empty, and Phineas presses Phillip into the stands, capturing his lips as crickets chirp and waves splash the shore in the distance.

 

 

 

 

**douze.**

 

_Temptation_

 

Half-emptied glasses sit atop their desks, the air thickening, cloying, heady, between them, and Phillip swallows, muscles in his jaw flexing, heat coiling tight in his core as P.T. fixes skin-simmering eyes on Phillip's mouth and parts his lips, permitting the tip of his tongue to _just_ slip out and skim the lower bow of pink flesh.

 

 

 

 

**treize.**

 

_View_

 

Uncovering Phillip's eyes, Phineas says grandly, unable to contain his grin, "Here it is… the best view in _all_ of New York."

 

 

 

 

**quatorze.**

 

_Music_

 

The parading horses' hooves clop in time to the infectious beat, and Phillip watches on, mesmerized under his personation of an impecunious man, as the notorious and absolutely _bewitching_ ringmaster belts out his musical self-aggrandizement against a backdrop of extravagantly costumed exotic beauties, and dazzling orange flame.

 

 

 

 

**quinze.**

 

_Silk_

 

Phineas lets the silk of Phillip's cravat slide intentionally through his fingers, taking his sweet time unknotting it, and chuckles at Phillip's impatient whine and the stutter in Phillip's breath when he teasingly brushes his nose over a sensitive spot under the curve of Phillip's jaw.

 

 

 

 

**seize.**

 

_Cover_

 

"It isn't a big deal," Phineas insists as Phillip winds a cloth bandage with great care, fingers nimble and hands steady, dressing an abrasion courtesy of one of Miss Deng Yan's knives with an unfortunately miscalculated trajectory.

 

 

 

 

**dix-sept.**

 

_Promise_

 

Phillip's birthday has been synonymous with creeping, wrenching dread, and a precursor to leveling stares, insinuations, and _obligations_ since pubescence began- slowly, much too _slowly_. He was a "late bloomer", and he'd overhear his father expressing his chagrin over his _physically stunted, emotionally maladjusted, weepy, sulking, soft-voiced, spineless,_ and very possibly _defective on a fundamental level_ , son, and the _rumors_ that they were _harboring a limp-wristed Mary boy_ under their hallowed roof, many a troubled, sleepless night- to transform his body into a rough outline of the man he would become.

_"The Depews have a daughter your age, Phillip, dear."_

_"And, she will be expecting to be_ **_entertained_ ** _, this evening."_

_"The Lindstroms' daughter has just come of age, and she_ **_and_ ** _her parents will be attending your reception, tonight."_

_"Well… it's just that… People are_ **_suspecting_ ** _things, Phillip."_

_"That you're a_ **_confirmed bachelor_ ** _. Our son will_ **_not_ ** _bring that sort of_ **_shame_ ** _upon this family."_

Dawn of his first birthday with Barnum's Circus brings with it a similar apprehension that twists his stomach, wringing it like a hand towel. Until the apprehension melts away under kisses littered over his neck, shoulders, back, cheek, and nose.

Evaporates beneath a warm stare from glowing hazel eyes, and the sonorous notes of a sleep-gravelly baritone bidding him a _"good morning, sunshine"_.

Is replaced with something resembling excitement as the last few notes of the birthday song, belted enthusiastically by the circus troupe and concluding with hearty shouts of, _"and many more"_ , echo throughout the tent, vitality and merriment, whole and expanding and infectious, rippling off of the striped canvas and soaking into even the sawdust under their feet.

Warms and metamorphoses into a lightly fizzing effervescence akin to happiness as a cake, three layers of vanilla and chocolate marble with _far_ too much icing, topped with twenty-nine lit candles, orange glow soft and inviting even though it's _fire_ , is placed before him, and a large hand, the hand that brought him here, settles on his backside, the owner, who promised him freedom and the fulfillment of needs he was never allowed to voice, encouraging him in that same alluring and enticing mellifluous baritone to, _"make a wish"_.

Sparks and showers in vibrant colors over the whole of him like fireworks as dear, beautiful Anne wipes a stripe of fondant across his cheek, beaming like the girl the world never allowed her to be, and Phineas, Phillip's crazy, ridiculous, pompous and prideful and perfectly irrepressible _everything_ , savior and salvation, partner and family and home, covers Phillip's nose in fondant _and_ cake, grinning like a boy who never entirely grew up despite the world's attempts to force him to.

And, regarding Phillip with such overwhelming, unmistakable _fondness_ , one might just believe that Phillip arranged every star in the sky expressly for him.

There is no decorum in the uproarious laughter and singing, bawdy jokes, high-spirited dancing, and copious number of shots tossed back.

Nothing modest or respectable in the way Phineas swipes the cake and frosting off of Phillip's face with his thumb and, without hesitation or a second's thought, sucks the digit clean.

Shame and expectations are nowhere to be found.

It's everything that Phineas promised, and it's the happiest that Phillip has ever been on the day of his birth.

 

 

 

 

**dix-huit.**

 

_Dream_

 

Movement beside him, causing the mattress to shift, jars Phineas out of his slumber. A whimper, shortly followed by another, pained and distraught, lifts the veil of initial disorientation, and he comes back to himself with a jolt.

Phillip.

Phineas sits upright and blinks, vision adjusting to the dim light provided by the oil lamps Phillip, finally, bashfully, admitted to needing for if- _when_ , as his sleep rarely goes undisturbed when the hauntings occur- he woke, because _being able to see makes it easier to remember where I am. To exorcise any residual demons_.

Demons, Phineas knows, both with fury boiling and churning within him, and his stomach dropping out of him, heart cracking a little further down the center every time he's reminded, that take the shape of Phillip's own father.

"Phil," he murmurs. He tries again, clearing his throat to remove some of the rasp from his voice. "Phillip."

He knows that touching Phillip in these moments is always a risk. Any contact, no matter the intent behind it, can be warped by Phillip's troubled subconscious into something harmful. His father cornering him, raising his cane, delivering lashes to Phillip's beautiful fingers with the sharp side of a ruler.

But, as Phillip's thrashing intensifies, nightshirt soaked with sweat and clinging to his skin, brows knitting together, forehead creasing, legs entangled in the blankets likely manifesting in his internal battle as a form of imprisonment, Phineas determines that he has to take that risk.

"Phillip." He gives Phillip's shoulder a firm but gentle shake. "Phillip, come back to me, darling. Phil, come on."

He hopes that, if nothing else, his voice will be the line that guides Phillip out of his nightmare. Back to the present and its safety and sanctuary from the hell the senior Carlyles subjected their only son to.

The thrashing ceases. Phillip's eyes open, and he asks hoarsely, "Phineas?"

"That's right." Phineas moves fully into Phillip's line of sight, feeling as though he can breathe, once more, as those breathtaking blue eyes roam searchingly over his face. "It's me. It's just me, here," he lulls. "You're safe, darling. That wretched bastard can't hurt you, anymore."

With a sigh, Phillip begins to go lax, the tension leaving his muscles. "I woke you," he assesses, the three words heavy, chastened and contrite.

Phineas feels the crack in his heart lengthen by millimetres. He and Charity would never, _never_ admonish their girls for coming to them and seeking solace after a nightmare. "I'm glad you did."

Phillip arches a skeptical brow as his rapid, shallow breaths start to slow, evening out.

Phineas leans in to kiss it, kissing Phillip's forehead, the bridge of his nose, and his temple, as well, as he draws the younger man into him. "No one should have to deal with the aftermath of a nightmare alone."

Phillip emits a soft breath, then nuzzles into the crook of Phineas's neck, eyelashes soft and faintly ticklish against Phineas's skin as his eyelids droop, sleep thankfully, blessedly pulling him under, once more. His arm wraps around Phineas, fingers curling into the cotton of his nightshirt. "You're so odd," he says, near whispering, rich caramel voice thick with drowsiness.

"I take that as a compliment," Phineas whispers back. "Better to be odd, than a boring, unimaginative old fogey." The cracks in his heart begin to mend as he feels Phillip's puff of affectionate laughter, and he smiles softly, rubbing circles into Phillip's back.

Beautiful Phillip. Perfect Phillip. Whose dreams _should_ be filled with splendors and riches and worlds at his brilliant fingertips just waiting to be penned into existence, but have, instead, been _tarnished_ by such unimaginative old fogies.

"And, that's why I feel safer with you than anyone else I've ever met," Phillip says, as softly and delicately as if it's a secret. And, maybe it is.

One that Phineas will cherish and nurture and take with him to the grave.

"You _are_ safe, Phillip," he replies, resting his chin on Phillip's head and breathing in the traces of Macassar oil in Phillip's hair. "And, you'll still be safe when you wake."

_And, maybe one day,_ he tells himself, his own breath beginning to slow as Phillip slips soundly into sleep in his arms, _the dreams you wake from will be the joy-filled, bright, and wondrous ones that you deserve._ _And… you'll be as safe in your thoughts as you are with me._

 

 

 

 

**dix-neuf.**

 

_Candle_

 

It's by the soft glow of candlelight, on a bed of downy blankets and pillows, that Phineas joins with Phillip, melding into him like their bodies were made for each other, reveling in the heat of Phillip's skin, the firm press of Phillip's fingers into his shoulder blades, and the reverent breaths and gasps of, " _Phineas, God, yes, please,_ ** _Phin_** ", whispering against his neck.

 

 

 

 

**vingt.**

 

_Talent_

 

Charles can wiggle his ears, the contortionist can lick her elbow while her legs are folded behind her head, Anne and W.D. have been picking up bits of Creole from one of the dancers, and Phineas proudly showcases his unparalleled ability to tie a cherry stem into a perfect knot with his tongue.

But, it's the hidden skill of a surprisingly _flexible_ Phillip, who blushes a ravishing shade of pink upon the reveal of Phineas's acquired genius, that truly piques Phineas's interest, spurring a devilish smirk to unfurl on his face, and an internal vow to explore all of the possibilities this _gift_ presents.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-et-un.**

 

_Silence_

 

They're both more than a little drunk as they sit on the dock, side by side, feet dangling over the edge and arms touching from the shoulders down. But, Phineas knows that the faint buzz humming through his veins isn't responsible for his attention being rerouted from the light snowfall vanishing in the crests of gently lapping midnight waves, to the snowflakes catching in Phillip's eyelashes.

Leaving fleeting kisses of glittering diamond on every long, feathery black lash, and crafting a vision that stills Phineas's breath in his lungs.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-deux.**

 

_Journey_

 

"Helen wanted a pet", is Phineas's unfalteringly buoyant explanation for why Helen, Caroline, and Walter, the Dog Boy, are fawning over a small brown field mouse… and Phillip has to spend his evening picking straw out of his partner's hair.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-trois.**

 

_Fire_

 

Flames flickering in the fireplace, no matter how well-contained behind a grate. Deceptively beautiful ombré tendrils lapping, dancing, and interweaving in their shows. Nights where the air is still and dry, ripping violent coughs from Phillip's throat until he is curled in on himself, gasping, velvet voice reduced to a pained rasp. Night visions filled with the too-real smell of ash and burning flesh…

They are all reminders of the indelible marks left by their brush with mortality, and reason for Phineas and Phillip to cling to each other that much tighter, prolong every moment they have together, lock eyes during their couplings and cherish every blessed second that they share the same air.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-quatre.**

 

_Strength_

 

All his life, his body has been used. To write more letters than he could keep track of. Record numbers, sign bank statements, pen notes and lists and map out designs.

To lay down tracks, drive nails into place, and carry colossal planks of lumber back and forth. Day and night, no matter the weather.

To snatch the scraps, _any_ scraps of food he could from a vendor's cart, and shovel them voraciously into his mouth once safely out of sight and reach of anyone who would stop him.

To evade stones and sticks, bottles and cans, hurled at him by child and adult alike, angered by his existence.

To rub his hands frantically together and huddle up, scrawny frame wracked with shivers, teeth chattering together, hoping to preserve the small remnants of heat lingering inside him and stave off sickness and death swirling in on the bitter winter wind.

To peddle newspapers, display clever sleights of hand, and provide for his family. Kisses, embraces, lifting his girls onto his back and carting them around for hours, their giddy squeals and laughter fuel for fantasies of him being their knight, their pony, a giant wreaking havoc on their village, the sheriff- or deputy, or chieftain- in their games of Cowboys and Indians.

Tucking soft bodies into warm beds, and repairing what he could, hoping and dreaming of bigger, brighter, bolder, more.

Dancing, presenting, stitching, flaunting, purveying. Showing the world just how _much_ he really can be.

The one thing Phineas Taylor Barnum never expected his body to be used for, to be capable of, is lifting another man's body- _his Phillip's body_ \- out of a blaze that razed so many of his dreams to the ground.

He lifts Phillip, now, in the same manner, arms easily supporting Phillip's weight- overwhelmingly muscle with very little, if _any_ fat. He would know- and conveys him over the threshold of their home. He kisses pink cheeks, and freckles on a pink nose, and laughs at the feeble attempt to deter him with whines, shoves, and swats, as he musses Phillip's coiffure damp and sparkling with snow and frost, nuzzling and pressing kisses into it.

Eventually, Phillip's resistance gives way to a wide grin he can no longer contain, and breaths of wondrous laughter. "Why _do_ I put up with you?"

"Because my perks vastly outnumber my drawbacks," Phineas answers merrily.

Phillip rolls his eyes, but his (partially-feigned) irritation is wiped from his face as Phineas dips him, grinning slyly, devilishly.

"And," Phineas continues, gaze fixed on Phillip's eyes and the glaze slowly fogging them, the interest burning behind crystalline blue irises, "because I'm the only one who can give you what you want. Like _this_." To demonstrate, he lowers Phillip and himself to the floor, never needing to readjust his hold or shift Phillip's weight. All the while, watching the gradual dilation of Phillip's eyes, the beginnings of a pleased smirk at the corners of Phillip's mouth.

"Occasionally your egotism works in your favor," Phillip murmurs, voice a sultry purr that only widens Phineas's grin. He wraps his arms around Phineas's neck and pulls him into a proper kiss, fingers of one hand threading into Phineas's hair, and Phineas presses into Phillip, his sculpted stomach meeting, rubbing against Phillip's groin.

A surge of pride with himself, and everything that the boy he was couldn't have fathomed he would be able to do, zings through Phineas when an elated moan sneaks its way past Phillip's lips. 

 

 

 

 

**vingt-cinq.**

 

_Mask_

 

It strikes Phillip as the cruelest sort of irony that his family must face the world exactly as they are, with no smokescreens to hide behind, or disguises to shield them from the horrific ugliness that people are capable of, yet, they remain themselves, the _truest versions of themselves_ , without fear or shame. While he and Phineas, the ringmasters entirely "normal", on the surface, must conceal _their_ true selves in shadow and behind so many walls, lest the world see them for who _they_ really are, and punish this most egregious sin.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-six.**

 

_Ice_

 

It's Caroline and Helen's idea to go ice-skating. Thus the day is spent with Charity and the girls skating circles around a continually skidding and falling Phillip and Phineas, who ultimately concede defeat and elect to a silent retreat to the snowy banks that fringe the ice-covered lake; Phillip wincing as he rubs at his most certainly bruised tailbone, and Phineas nursing an equally bruised ego.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-sept.**

 

_Fall_

 

Phillip's legs fail to maintain their grip on the Lyra, and, much to his eternal mortification, he lets loose a panicked squeak as he slips from the silver hoop… only to land right in a crookedly grinning Phineas's waiting arms.

 

 

 

 

**vingt-huit.**

 

_Forgotten_

 

Every hateful name and curse spat, every venomous glare replete with the purest _contempt_ , is purged from their minds when they are among their family of wonderful aberrations.

When Phineas draws Phillip into him and feathers a kiss on the pock carved out near Phillip's hairline.

When Phillip caresses the patchwork of scars etched into Phineas's back and whispers, "Phin, you are _more_ than enough."

 

 

 

 

**vingt-neuf.**

 

_Dance_

 

Chest to chest, they move as one, swaying in leisurely half-circles to a melody of Phineas's design hummed soft and soothing in his deep baritone, and Phillip, more content than he ever fathomed he could be, noses so, so tenderly at Phineas's mouth before nestling into his shoulder and letting the metronome of Phineas's heart quiet his mind.

 

 

 

 

**trente.**

 

_Body_

 

Comfort in his own skin has always eluded Phillip, his chest constricting and stomach clenching with shame at the sight of his many smeared paint and angry lightning bolt scars.

He observes the ease and tranquility with which the Oddities and other performers lounge about in their undergarments and change in one another's company, however, unflinching at bruises, blemishes, and disfigurements, and feels the utter adoration that Phineas pours into every open-mouthed kiss he litters over the _full_ expanse of Phillip's flesh, and at last begins to understand what it feels like.

 

 

 

 

**trente-et-un.**

 

_Sacred_

 

_Sacrilege_ , _licentiousness_ , _macabre_ , _unconventional_ , and _taboo_ are concepts that P.T. Barnum is far more familiar with than anything close to _sacrosanct_ , _chaste_ , _commonplace_ , or _pure_. Yet, sinner, conman, and scoundrel he may be, he recognizes that the silkiness of his Charity's flaxen hair, her quiet strength and sensibility, and the unfaltering softness of her skin, smile, gaze, and voice, the childlike wonder and purity of their girls, and the perfectly put together appearance, misty blue eyes, ethereal beauty, cutting rationality, and slowly but surely blossoming happiness of his Phillip, are things to be kept close to his heart forever and always.

 

 

 

 

**trente-deux.**

 

_Farewells_

 

Severing ties with his parents is easier and far more _painless_ than Phillip ever could have envisaged, with P.T. Barnum pressed into his side, arm wrapped protectively around Phillip's shoulders and voice soft but deadly as he informs Mr. Carlyle, "I'd advise you not to contact your son ever again, unless you want me, my entire troupe of circus performers, _and_ the authorities, to contend with."

 

 

 

 

**trente-trois.**

 

_World_

 

A holiday show in Connecticut was, naturally, another one of Phineas's brilliant ideas.

"It's a treat for the whole family. Gives them a spectacle that they will never see anywhere else on Earth, _and_ they can stop by the gift shop on the way out and pick up a few mementos to immortalize the experience."

Phillip found himself unable to argue with his partner's logic, for once. Questionable judgement aside, Phineas Barnum _does_ , indeed, have a keen mind for business.

Protestations likewise shriveled and died in the back of his throat upon the midnight confession spoken in soft murmurs against his forehead.

Connecticut was Phineas's birthplace.

And, no doubt, the point of origin for his subtle, but still present enough to send a mild thrill coursing through Phillip's veins every time it makes itself apparent, accent.

It isn't until Christmas Day, their locomotive filled with the cheerful din of laughter, jokes, and stories and gifts being exchanged over a remarkably bountiful spread of breakfast foods, that the full impact of a holiday away from home finally lands.

The ripples fanning out have an instantaneous effect on Phineas, slumping his proud, broad shoulders, and drawing his arched brows together as he sinks without any of his signature decorum and flair, into a chair in his and Phillip's compartment onboard the train.

Slipping in behind Phineas, Phillip slides the compartment door shut, muffling the celebration that includes what sounds surprisingly like a bark of laughter from the normally stoic W.D.

Silence fills the space, and though silence between Phillip and Phineas is almost never anything but comfortable, Phillip knows better than to allow his partner to dwell too long in the endlessly winding corridors of his mind.

Discreetly, he collects a parcel from his travel bag, and pads across the floor. He leans over the back of the chair and feathers kisses to the always just slightly unruly curls atop Phineas's head as he informs him, "There's still a present you have yet to open."

Phineas gives a soft, surprised grunt, startling out of his wistful malaise. "'Present', Phil?" He tries at a smile, but all that he is able to manage is a half-hearted quirk of the corners of his mouth. "I don't need a--"

Phillip tips the chair back without warning, forcing Phineas to tilt his head to meet Phillip's eyes. "People are allowed to shower _you_ in riches, too, you know," he says, cocking his eyebrows intently in the precise manner that never fails to win Phineas over.

Phineas's mouth remains open as he regards Phillip, hazel eyes flickering over every inch of Phillip's countenance. But, sure enough, his posture relaxes, easing into complaisance. "Darling, I thought we were past the courting stage," he teases. A smirk tugs softly at his lips.

"A gentleman is _never_ past the courting stage." Lips twitching into their own lighthearted smirk, Phillip presses a lingering kiss to Phineas's brow, slowly tipping the chair back into its proper place on all four legs, and hands over the parcel.

A box wrapped in white paper, topped with an elegantly tied strip of red ribbon.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Phineas lifts the box to his ear with a twinkle stealing into his eyes, prepared to, like the child he will forever be at heart, give it a shake to help determine its contents.

Phillip quickly halts him, gently catching his wrist. "It's strongly advised that you _not_ do that."

Phineas's mouth sets in a frown all too like a pout, but he shrugs, acquiescing, and begins to lower his arm as Phillip, feeling a bit like Ebeneezer Scrooge prior to his ghostly visitations, releases him.

Phillip works to keep his features carefully impassive, not wanting to betray anything as he watches Phineas slip the ribbon out of its ornately elaborate knot and set it aside. When Phineas gives him a glance from the corner of his eye, one that fails at disguising his attempted solicitation while inching the tips of his fingers under the lid, the most Phillip permits himself to do is nestle closer, resting his chin on Phineas's shoulder.

He continues to avoid Phineas's eye, until he hears the hitch in the man's breath.

"Phil, I-- It's…"

"I commissioned the finest sculptor in the state of New York. The pictures I had on-hand were sufficient enough models for him to work off of, and…" Nuzzling his cheek into the crook of Phineas's neck, Phillip lights a kiss on the rugged curve of his jaw and stands, one hand settling on Phineas's shoulder, the other absently combing fingers through silky dark curls. "I'd say the craftsmanship speaks for itself."

Phineas is at a momentary loss for words, throat flexing in search of speech, and the sight has Phillip's own throat tightening, a lump forming somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.

"Phillip, this is…" Carefully, ever so carefully, Phineas takes the gift in-hand.

It is a snow globe, filled with finely detailed miniature sculptures of a circus tent, two ringmasters in matching black top hats and red and gold coats with tails, and three other figures, distinctly feminine.

Two blondes, one quite a bit taller than the other, and a brunette. All with long, flowing hair, and delicately shaped smiles.

"I… That is--" Phillip has to pause to clear his throat, a mite more emotional over the affair than he anticipated becoming. "Charity," he starts, again, "told me that you've struggled most of your life with a desire for the world to show you love and recognition. Admiration. _Respect_. I… " His voice softens, fingers curling into the material of Phineas's pastel blue shirt. Even now, he's afraid to be vulnerable. Afraid to open himself up and reveal the pulpy, fragile, desperately _aching_ core within, knowing that he risks rejection every time.

Even here, with the man who has never rejected any part of him. He's still so afraid.

And, he knows that he isn't the only one.

Which is why--

"I wanted to give you a reminder, something tangible, concrete, and indisputable, that a slice of the world- _your_ world- loves and respects you for everything that you are. Unequivocally. _Beyond measure_. Regardless of where you came from, and what anyone else among the small-minded--" _Such as my father_ , he thinks, a particularly bitter, rancid taste seeping through his mouth, _and Charity's_ "--may think or say about it."

The hand combing through Phineas's hair ceases its ministrations as Phillip withdraws it and steps around the chair to face his partner, finding hazel eyes glittering, just as Phillip knows his own eyes are.

"Merry Christmas, Phin," he says, a smile, watery but genuine, teeming with the love that floods his every orifice, crossing his face.

Letting out a laugh, soft, tender, overcome, Phineas sets the snow globe safely on a side table and grabs onto Phillip's waist, his murmur of, "Come here," Phillip's only forewarning before he is tugged onto Phineas's lap. Phineas slides his hands up Phillip's back and over his shoulders to cup Phillip's face and draw him in, thumbs callused from years of labor caressing Phillip's cheekbones as Phineas touches his nose to Phillip's.

Intensifying the flood of love in Phillip's chest.

With a kiss to the tip of Phillip's nose, Phineas pulls back, beaming wide and radiantly enough to illuminate the compartment all on his own. He maneuvers one of his hands to the back of Phillip's neck, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and guides Phillip into a kiss that Phillip joyfully reciprocates, Phillip's world right here; warm and solid and dazzling.

Phineas, Phineas, Phineas.

As they part, Phineas says, fingertips dancing over Phillip's hipbone and rubbing at the small of Phillip's back, "Holidays away from Charity have never been- will _never_ _be_ \- easy for me. And, now that we have our girls, the idea would have been unthinkable. But…" His eyes glow, whisky illuminated by bar lights shining through the glass. "That was before I had _you_ , Phillip. You to share the load. You to be my sense, my reason. Sometimes, even my conscience."

Phillip huffs out a laugh, the pang in his chest rebutting, _You know that's an exaggeration. Even for_ ** _you_** _._

His throat is much too tight to make verbalizing it a possibility.

"You saw through all of my illusions, my deceptions, the night we met, and still chose to stay by my side. To give me everything you had. And, that's why…" He takes one of Phillip's hands into his own and raises it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to scarred knuckles and four cicatrix-marked fingertips.

The tenderness and intimacy of it still sends shivers down Phillip's spine. Makes his stomach flutter as if glitter is raining from its walls as a tall, striking figure that embodies everything Phillip always wanted but never deluded himself into believing he could have, cloaked in the red of Phillip's most lurid fantasies, spins and prances, coattails twirling behind him, at the heart of a perfectly choreographed spiral of doves with downy feathers the color of purest snow, inside of it.

"Having you with me is a reminder, all on its own, that I am loved. Loved far more than that pitiful, insignificant tailor's boy--"

" _Phin_ ," Phillip interjects. He and Charity hate the way that Phineas disparages himself for his background. Even without his monumental success, the person that Phineas Taylor Barnum has become is still worthy of being celebrated.

"--even with his incredible imagination, could have envisaged in any of his million dreams."

" _Phin_ ," Phillip says, again, hushed and awed, elated and emotionally laid bare, his eggshell core unprotected and ready to be crushed.

"Merry Christmas to _you_ , my darling, dearest Phillip," Phineas breathes.

Still refusing to deliver that fatal blow.

He rests his forehead against Phillip's and hugs him closer, their chests pressing flush against each other. They stay that way for some time; until the light outside begins to dim as snow and frost collect on the window, coating the glass.

Finally, with more than some- perhaps puerile- reluctance, Phillip stands up, only briefly, just a moment, to retrieve a quilt from the bed. He drapes the quilt around Phineas's shoulders and joins him, once more, sitting comfortably and contentedly with his legs stretched across Phineas's lap to rest on the far arm of the chair as he burrows into Phineas's steadfast, sturdy warmth.

With a kiss to Phillip's forehead, slow and soft as the first winter's snow, Phineas gives the snow globe a light shake before placing it back on the table. He bundles Phillip and himself up in the thick, plush comforter, and Phillip curls blissfully under Phineas's chin as they watch snow fall on the two tiny ringmasters and their peaceful enclosed world of color, joy, family, and love.

 

 

 

 

**trente-quatre.**

 

_Formal_

Pins clasped between his teeth, Phineas unwinds the spool of measuring tape and wraps it around Phillip's torso, ignoring Phillip's tepid and superficial protests that he can simply _buy_ a suit for the performance at the concert hall.

His partner still doesn't quite grasp the importance of custom touches of ornamentation, _especially_ when an otherwise tedious occasion calls for a bit of crazy.

 

 

 

 

**trente-cinq.**

 

_Fever_

 

Charity smooths the damp cloth over Phineas's forehead with trembling hands, and Phineas croaks, " _Father_ ," his clammy hand blindly reaching out and clamping like a vise around Phillip's wrist as Phillip crumples to his knees at Phineas's bedside, praying and praying like he never has before, _Father in Heaven,_ ** _please_** _let him survive this._

 

 

 

 

**trente-six.**

 

_Laugh_

 

Phillip's laughter, bubbling out of him in spite of himself as Phineas's arms encircle his midriff and lift him off the ground, near giggles light and airy and _completely rapturous_ as he's hugged tight to Phineas's chest and spun about, is one of the most wondrously joyful and _beautiful_ sounds that Phineas has ever heard.

 

 

 

 

**trente-sept.**

 

_Lies_

 

There are lies that the world has fed every member of Barnum's Company. Lies birthed by parents, bred by peers, and nurtured like a great, bloodthirsty beast by spittle-spraying protestors and sneering aristocrats all too ready to cast aspersions on anyone who doesn't fit their exceedingly limited criteria for "personhood".

Funny, then, that it is the biggest liar and fraud of them all who takes it upon himself to challenge these falsehoods until each and every oddity, performer, and hand in his employ believes in the truth his humbug has created.

Even his dear skeptical-apprentice-turned-devoted-partner.

Even the conman, himself.

 

 

 

 

**trente-huit.**

 

_Forever_

 

Permanence is a notion that Phillip has never been able to put any stock in; his formative years shaped by governesses and nursemaids he had just begun to develop a precarious trust in being dismissed from the household for questioning his father, and forays into the minute self-expression he was allowed, timorous explorations of his imagination and cautious depictions of his innermost desires, promptly confiscated and disposed of, leaving him alone to endure the scathing reprisal for his "depravity".

Safety and home were nothing but pleasant fantasies. Folly that Phillip would scoff rancorously into his wineglass at the mere mention of.

He can no more ease himself into the idea of "forever", as a man with a home to call his own, the security of a career he is able to pour every ounce of himself into, and the warm, welcoming safety of a loving family that accepts him exactly as he is, than he could as a quivering reed of a boy.

Because his mind, no matter how he tries to curb its morbid fixations, keeps a mental inventory, tallying every newly grayed hair he finds in his lover, his partner, his Phineas's hair. Every new line worn into Phineas's skin by time and age and the tolls they take.

Always aware of the number, _eighteen_.

An eighteen year difference between them.

Eighteen years that Phineas will never have with Phillip.

Two digits, ominous, and immutable- emblazoned in stark black behind Phillip's eyelids.

Eyes open, unwilling and afraid to close them, lest he miss something he may never get back, Phillip presses his ear to Phineas's chest, drinks in every percussive beat of the pulse tucked behind planes and slopes of steadfast muscle and tissue and fortresses of bone. The gentle rise and fall of lungs expanding and contracting so wondrously, perfectly, under his cheek.

And, he hates, with the whole of his being, that the only guaranteed, ineluctable constant in all the universe, is the arrival of Death at every door.

 

 

 

 

**trente-neuf.**

 

_Overwhelmed_

So many eyes fixed on him, pressure mounting, expectations bowing in his shoulders, the bequeathed hat like a weighty crown that doesn't fit, his breath rattles in his lungs, drowns out the music and concerned queries from Lettie and Anne, and he can't do this, _can't,_ _can't,_ _can't_ \--

Then, P.T. is there, tall form blocking the glare of the spotlights, strong, grounding hands enveloping Phillip's biceps, forehead touching Phillip's as he whispers, "Phil, Phil, it's okay. Look at me, it's okay. It's _okay_."

_"Look at me."_ An order often snapped at Phillip.

_"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."_

It has never been followed by the words, " _It's okay_."

"Let's go to the office," P.T. continues, "I'll get you a drink- some tea, with cinnamon and ginger, and a bit of vanilla- and we can talk about that Dickens release you've been breezing through."

Composure returns to Phillip, the constriction on his throat loosening, thudding pulse decelerating.

P.T. issues commands to the rest of the troupe, deep voice strong and unwavering, but never abasing.

P.T. Barnum is not a tyrant with an iron fist, or a snide, leering figure keen on asserting his superiority and putting everyone else in their "place", but a patriarch- words and presence a thick blanket swaddling Phillip, a steady hand at the wheel, a proud pillar and guiding light for their family of misfits.

A _leader_ that Phillip could never be.

That Phillip has never had.

That- strong hands kneading Phillip's shoulders and the nape of his neck, skillfully uncoiling and dislodging all of the tension residing there, listening intently to Phillip recounting and commentating on the plot of _A Tale of Two Cities_ between sips of specially prepared tea, hums low in his throat analgesic - Phillip realizes he _needs_.

 

 

 

 

**quarante.**

 

_Whisper_

 

"This _is_ where I want to be," Phillip whispers into the lush material of Phineas's white cravat and gold-trimmed red waistcoat.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-et-un.**

 

_Wait_

 

Phillip will forever castigate himself for not grabbing hold of P.T.'s shoulder, his coat sleeve, his hand, and convincing him to stop and _think_ about the consequences of his ill-conceived, foolish, impetuous, and completely _reckless_ tour.

For not telling him the truth, **_I_** _come to see you_.

For not begging him to stay.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-deux.**

 

_Talk_

 

"I… _thought_ \--" Phillip pants, fighting a losing battle to keep focus as heated kisses are pressed to his jaw and neck. Teeth aid in ensuring his trouncing, playfully tracing the cartilage shell of his ear, and a tongue- _damn him and that_ ** _tongue_** \- licks over the hollow of his throat, effectively rendering him weak at the knees. "We came into the office to discuss the shipping costs of-- _aah, Christ, Phin_ … new equipment for _A_ -Anne and W.D.'s performances."

In response, more kisses, wet and deliberate, are dropped in a trail from his Adam's apple to his cheek, tapering into a nose nuzzling intently up his sideburn, to his temple, where he feels Phineas's lips curve into the man's signature, obnoxiously enticing impish grin.

"I can think of a few more _inspired_ things we could be 'discussing'," Phineas purrs, low, seductive notes rumbling in his chest. His hand cups Phillip's rear, squeezing the swell of it while his mouth affixes itself to Phillip's throat, and, with a muffled moan, Phillip submits.

Happily, _earnestly_ , allows himself to be conquered.

His last concession, his waving of the white flag, is securing the lock on the office door behind them before throwing himself headlong into another one of his partner's reckless and wonderfully insane ideas.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-trois.**

 

_Search_

 

"Phillip?" Phineas finishes sifting through the items on a clothes rack, the item that he's looking for decidedly not there. "Phillip?" He calls again, louder, but not too loud. His heart is still recovering from the last time he raised his voice and Phillip flinched.

Subtly.

But, not subtle enough to escape Phineas's notice. 

He passes Lettie, Charles, and Vasily, already in full costume and makeup, and a mixture of amused and bewildered, no doubt, at their ringmaster bustling about, increasingly agitated, in breeches, boots, gilded waistcoat, and cream-colored cravat, signature coat conspicuously absent.

Phineas figures that the office is his best bet. If he can't find his coat, he can at least find Phillip and enlist his aid in locating the damned thing before the crowds arrive. Pushing the tent flap aside, he hurries to the office door, wasting no time with knocking. "Phillip, where is my--"

The question ceases abruptly as it was put forward.

On the small sofa they acquired for the many long nights spent going over bank statements and other thoroughly exhausting paperwork, Phillip lies supine, one arm thrown over his face, likely to block out the light pouring in from the windows, and the other resting snugly on familiar crimson fabric.

Velveteen and extravagant, _of course_ , as Phineas could afford.

And, draped over Phillip's body; Phillip's chest rising and falling just perceptibly beneath it. 

Besotted smile pulling at his lips, Phineas strides across the room to close the curtains, and backs out of the office, quietly closing the door.

His spare coat isn't nearly as lavish and attention-grabbing. But… It will do for this afternoon.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-quatre.**

 

_Hope_

 

After the tents are erected, stripes of vibrant red and gold a proud beacon for diversity against a homogenous grey Manhattan sky, Phillip quietly joins P.T. in surveying the fruits of the man's tireless labor and restless ambition, and cannot stop the rush of pride- and joy and love love love- that swells high and heavy in his chest as the once defeated showman breaks anew into his wide, scintillating grin.

"Our show will be bigger and better than ever," P.T. declares with all of his characteristic flourish, eyes bright and gleaming with boundless ideas to ensure the veracity of his claim. 

Phillip, long accustomed to doing so, is prepared to will away the flutters in his stomach at the usage of the word, " _our_ ", when his partner manages to catch him off-guard yet again.

Turning to Phillip, the showman adds, voice suddenly soft and whisky eyes glowing with fondness that takes Phillip's breath away, "And, we- _I_ owe it entirely to _you_."

 

 

 

 

**quarante-cinq.**

 

_Eclipse_

 

"An aphelion," Phineas says, pointing to an illustration in one of his books on Astronomy- a field that Phillip never gave any thought to before this man who may as well have come from a different celestial body altogether blustered into his life- "is the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet, at which it is farthest from the sun." His breath ghosts over the back of Phillip's neck, _warm_ , and shivers race down the vertebrae of Phillip's spine, shooting goosebumps along his arms.

Phineas Taylor Barnum has been seemingly ignorant to the concept of personal space as long as Phillip Carlyle has known him.

But, _this_ …

Glancing up, Phillip realizes that his partner's chin is mere centimeters from resting on his shoulder. That, if he wanted, if he were bold enough, Phillip need only turn mere inches and--

Swallowing, Phillip prompts, "A per _i_ helion?" He hates the tremble in his voice, prays that it doesn't give his line of thought away.

" _That_ ," Phineas says, his intonation suddenly several notes lower, gaze no longer fixed on the page and eyes dark as the furthest depths of space. With _desire_. Roiling. Heady. "Is the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet…" He leans in, diminishing the space between them with every word, and it registers that Phillip must have turned those few, meagre inches, as it's his face, his _lips_ , he feels Phineas's breath ghosting over. "At which it is _closest_ to the sun."

"And, an eclipse?" Phillip manages some vestige of self-possession. Enough to arch one of his brows, turn one side of his mouth up into a fleeting smirk, give his eyelashes a coquettish flutter.

And, Phineas, grinning like he's just embarked on a venture destined for success, closes off the gap between them, large form easily obscuring the lamplight over Phillip's desk.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-six.**

 

_Gravity_

 

For Anne Wheeler, radiant, stunning, and more courageous a woman than he ever could have conceived of, Phillip was willing to plunge from a balcony, hoping that he would be caught.

For P.T. Barnum, Phillip falls from a greater height and never expects, never dares to _dream_ that the showman's inescapable gravitational pull would land him right in P.T.'s eyes, his arms, his heart, his _home_.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-sept.**

 

_Highway_

 

"That's it, Phillip. That's it," Phineas breathes, voice so husky, it may as well be a growl, fire dripping from his lips to ignite every inch of Phillip's skin.

He takes hold of Phillip's length, thumb brushing over the slit at the head, while simultaneously thrusting up, and Phillip is rocked, his nerves vibrating, pulsing with the sensation. It's so good, _so good_ , so much, he can hardly _breathe_ , heat, so much _heat_ , rising and pressing and crushing within him. Constricting and expanding. Ready to drown him Smother him. Make him explode.

But, he trusts Phineas. Trusts him implicitly, with the kisses that Phineas litters over his temple, his cheeks, his nose. The tethering kisses that he takes Phillip's mouth into. The love shining honey-soft behind the lust that has swallowed his eyes.

"You're so close, darling. Almost there. _Almost there_."

Phineas knows this path. Has been down it before. He won't allow Phillip to get lost.

Or, hurt.

A final thrust against a place inside of him that Phillip never knew existed, and Phillip is racing, tumbling, plunging, issuing a sound like a scream that empties the air from his lungs, hands pressing hard into Phineas's shoulders, body full and overflowing with nothing but bliss and love, love, love, love.

Phineas kisses him, filling Phillip's lungs with the air from his own. Holds him tight, brushes tendrils of sweat-dampened hair away from Phillip's forehead, and murmurs, baritone a soothing rumble, "So brilliant, Phillip. You're beautiful. Gorgeous. Absolutely _perfect_. Phillip. _My Phillip_."

The frightening heat is gone, no longer threatening to consume him. All that's left in its wake is ecstasy and love, all-encompassing.

Sobs wrack Phillip and tears streak down his face, but he smiles and kisses the downturned tip of Phineas's nose, and Phineas's shoulder, and basks in the kisses layered over him, in return.

He's made it to the end of the road. He has arrived on the other side.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-huit.**

 

_Unknown_

 

The sound of soft, sleep-slowed and smooth breathing on either side of him, Phineas shifts surreptitiously, angling Phillip and Charity so their heads are resting more comfortably on him.

It's well after midnight.

Locks of blonde hair fall out of the quickly arranged bun Charity had gathered them into, that morning, sweeping over her face like flaxen curtains. And, Phillip emits the softest sound, a needy mewl that Phineas would tease him for under different circumstances, as he snuggles closer, subconsciously seeking warmth, contact. The things he has been denied for so long.

The book that Phillip was reading aloud to them, an anthology of works by Edgar Allen Poe, whom Phillip has christened a, "greatly misunderstood genius", begins to slip from Phillip's grip, and Phineas catches it, placing it on the arm of an adjacent chair.

 

_I was a child and she was a child/In this kingdom by the sea/But we loved with a love that was more than love/I and my Annabelle Lee._

 

These were the stanzas that Phillip read, and reread, a generous handful of times, for Phineas loved the sound of them, the sentiment behind them, the way the words rolled off of Phillip's tongue and were shaped by his high-class parlance. And, Charity, though she gave her usual, lighthearted pretense of chastisement, was just as enchanted by the purity, the idealism, the profundity of such simple, direct statements.

Though mere children, _"We loved with a love that was more than love"._

Was that not an apt description of Phineas and Charity? A lifelong affair, begun when they were only children, and yet far superior in depth and devotion to many affairs initiated by adults twice their age. Charity, who, from the day they met, the first time Phineas incurred her father's wrath by daring to make her laugh, was willing to defy every rule and boundary to be with him.

Then… _Phillip_.

Phillip, who lost every vestige of his old life the moment that Phineas swept into his world. Unapologetic. Ambitious and unrelenting. And, Phillip, for all of his protests, never once looked back. Phillip, who Phineas promised freedom. A cure for his misery doused but never drowned in whisky. Phillip, who could have breathed his final breath in Phineas's arms.

Poverty, hardship, even death and destruction. He's blindly, recklessly steered both of them into perils they should have been sheltered from ever knowing.

Yet, here they are-- somehow _safe_ _and_ _happy_. A bit worse for wear, but happy as Phineas promised them they would be.

Maybe, magically, even _happier_.

He tugs a corner of the blanket down to cover Charity's exposed shoulder, and reclines back as far as he can on the sofa without disturbing them, feeling muscles in Phillip's jaw twitch as Phillip swallows, and Charity murmuring quiet nonsense into his clavicle.

One might think him the most selfish man alive for having not simply one, but _two_ partners equally dazzling and extraordinary; true marvels, exceptional as bottled lightning and shooting stars streaking across the sky.

And, Phineas might agree with that assessment.

Might even agree that he doesn't deserve Charity _or_ Phillip. Let alone both of them.

"Dear."

He tries not to start as Charity interposes, her tinkling, silvery voice hushed in consideration for Phillip.

"Sweetheart?" Phineas tilts his head down to meet a sleepy smile and half-opened brown eyes.

"I can practically smell the heat from your brain overworking itself."

But, of course. No matter how grand, equable, or unruffled a face he puts on, Charity knows him too well.

"You worry too much. You have given us everything we could ever ask for, and all that you ask us for, in return, is our love and our happiness. Which," Charity adds, her head butting playfully at Phineas's chin, "isn't exactly pulling fingernails."

"Charity's right," Phillip slurs, eyes still closed, barely on the cusp of consciousness. "We love you, go to sleep."

Phineas chuckles, razor-edged icicles of dread, fear, and _guilt_ that pierce his heart melting as warmth settles inside of him, bringing a thaw. "Very eloquent, my lovely playwright."

"Eloquence is the last thing anyone in this room needs to be bothered about, right now." Charity's voice, though undeniably steeped in amusement and affection, drops to hardly more than a whisper, thickening and trailing off as her eyes flutter closed. "Sleep, Phin," she says.

Phineas listens. To her. To both of them.

He draws a breath in unison with the two halves of his heart who he loves with such enormity, who _love him_ with such enormity, the winged seraphs in Heaven _would_ be covetous.

Sweetheart. Darling.

Charity. Phillip.

_"We loved with a love that was more than love."_

They would follow him to the ends of the earth.

Eyes closing, brain cutting him temporarily free from its endlessly cyclical internment, Phineas knows and _vows_ that he'll protect Charity and Phillip with everything he has, without hesitation, wherever he takes them, and continue to protect them long after they venture from this world into the vast and great unknown.

 

 

 

 

**quarante-neuf.**

 

_Lock_

 

Hearts, Phillip has always known, are like trunks. Heavy. Sealed. Stashed away in secret rooms that scant few are ever granted access to. Some hearts remain sealed off forever, fiercely safeguarded, freezing anyone and anything that seeks entrance out.

Hearts, Phillip also knows, are like fragile items stored in trunks for their own safety. Delicate china, porcelain dolls, antique music boxes, and dog-eared novels with broken spines. Worn and weary, they are beautiful, silently beseeching, desiring the gentlest of touches and tenderest ministrations. But, for all they thirst and want for love, they may break if handled without the utmost care and understanding.

So, they remain in their trunks. Safe behind cages of ribs and layers of tissue woven into sturdy cords and enduring thatched citadels.

The owner of these citadels, alone, holds the key to these precious trunks and all that they protect. And, it is the owner who makes the choice, often bereft of good sense, to hand the key over, entrusting it sometimes blindly and _always_ heedlessly to another, whom now wields the power to destroy trunk and frangibles and stronghold all at once.

Discriminatory as Phillip has always been, wary, circumspect, and vigilant, wanting to keep any more cracks from forming in the broken spine and corroding music box he holds so close to his person no one else may catch a glimpse of them, he was unprepared for Phineas Taylor Barnum.

_Nothing_ could have prepared him for Phineas. Rebellion personified. Magnetic. Formidable. Irresistible.

It was _coup de foudre_.

And, it was inevitable from the moment they locked eyes that Phillip would give Phineas his key. The lock on the trunk is rusted and corroded, items within chipped and damaged from years of misuse. But, treasured by Phineas, regardless.

Phineas, who, with eyes shining, verdant and cobalt and golden honey full of emotion that sweeps Phillip away, gives Phillip his key, in return.

 

 

 

 

**cinquante.**

 

_Breathe_

 

They had argued that morning.

In hindsight, it was over something completely trivial and paltry. _Stupid_ , even. Names were traded- _"short-sighted"_ , _"careless"_ , _"uptight"_ , _"egotistical"_ \- and scowls bore into each other, before Phineas whirled on his heels and exited the office, leaving Phillip to drop into his chair with a plaintive, long-suffering sigh.

Anger dissolved moments after he left Phillip, but Phineas's pride refused to let him surrender any ground.

Then, Phillip collapsed during rehearsals.

_He was coughing_ , Lettie said, shellshocked. _Coughing so hard, tears were pourin' down his face_.

_No one noticed until there was a pause in the singing_ , Anne admitted, a tremble underlining her words.

W.D. was among those rushing to Phillip's aid, tearing his shirt open to eliminate any constriction on Phillip's breathing. Deng Yan was quietly instructing Constantine to hold Phillip's head upright, allow the air to flow more easily to his lungs. The Lord of Leeds was fretting to himself, hand waving in a fanning motion in front of his face, and several of the dancers were clinging to each other, murmuring anxiously amongst themselves.

All of this was white noise to Phineas. Muffled by cotton clogging his ears. His senses tunneled and the only thing he could focus on was Phillip.

Phillip unconscious. _Not breathing._

Immediately, Phineas's body acts where his mind cannot. It rushes forward and drops him to his knees next to Phillip, taking Phillip's face into his hands.

The rest of the troupe either silently withdraw to let the head of their company- their family- tend to his ailing partner, or remain, presence lost to the frantic haze encompassing Phineas's thoughts.

It's of no real concern, as the only thing that matters is Phillip. Phillip, Phillip, Phillip. Slipping out of his grasp.

_Again_.

Phineas moves shaking hands from Phillip's face- overheated, sheet white- to his chest, and administers firm compressions, counting to himself, _1… 2… 3… 4… 5._ Then, pinches Phillip's nose and pushes air from his mouth into Phillip's.

Again. _1… 2… 3… 4… 5_. Breathe. _Phillip, breathe._ ** _Please_** _. God._

At last, coughs, gasps- terrifying and horrible and beautiful, all at once.

Phineas's own breath halts in his throat as he sits up, giving Phillip space to rake in another desperate breath, and another, Phillip's coughs subsiding as his struggling lungs begin to change the tide in their favor.

The shaking of Phineas's hands intensifies. His vision swims with tears that blot it. Relief tremors through him, and-- God, he would give every bit, every molecule, every _atom_ of oxygen he has to Phillip. Keep Phillip breathing, his lungs working, heart pumping blood to circulate through him, warm his skin, bring that gorgeous flush to his cheeks.

"Phin," Phillip finally rasps. A plea. He reaches with a feeble hand, searches with misty eyes.

Phineas takes his hand, clasps it, fervently kisses Phillip's fingers and palm and the point on Phillip's wrist where he can feel Phillip's precious pulse against his lips. "Thank God," he whispers against that pulse. "Oh, Phillip." He guides Phillip's hand to his cheek, rests his face in it. "Phillip, I'm so sorry, I--"

"I know," Phillip murmurs soothingly. The simple act of drawing a breath no longer appears to pain him. "I know you-- I am, too. I just…" He sits upright and falls as gracefully as he can into Phineas, touching his still lightly sweat-damp forehead to Phineas's. "God, you're so bullheaded."

His voice teems with as much love as fatigue.

Phineas emits a strangled laugh, just resisting the need to shower every inch of Phillip in kisses, for the sake of their audience. "And, you're near stubborn as a mule. A wise, lovely mule that keeps the caravan together-- "

"Because it loves that absurd, completely mad bull too much to let him wander astray."

Phineas drinks Phillip, his magnificent, beautiful Phillip, in, and holds onto him, supporting him and quite unwilling to let go, as Phillip finds the strength to stand and assures the troupe that he's all right.

Phineas orders O'Malley to cancel the day's show, knowing that everyone is far too shaken up by the… mishap- that came all too close to a _tragedy_ \- to perform. He tells every member of the company to get some rest, take heart that he'll look after Phillip, not to worry, as they'll still receive a full day's pay, and _thanks_ them. As sincerely as he can without breaking down in front of them a second time.

They look from him to Phillip with understanding, and adjourn, murmuring well-wishes as they go.

Anne pauses to pin Phineas in a fearsome stare that promises repercussion should anything happen to Phillip.

Repercussion that Phineas would accept, as he'd rightfully deserve it.

He monitors Phillip the entire journey home, ignoring Phillip's occasional look of half-hearted annoyance, especially after Phillip insisted that he didn't need to see a doctor.

He bathes Phillip, once they arrive at the Barnum manor, in the pampering manner that he knows Phillip enjoys more than he'll ever admit to, and helps him into a fresh night shirt, donning his own with lethargy weighing on his limbs.

"I didn't mean to scare you like that," Phillip says softly, wistful gaze trained on the bedspread at his feet.

"It's not as if you _chose_ to have a horrible coughing fit," Phineas answers, dropping the hem of his nightshirt over the waistband of his sleep trousers. "Besides, it's--"

"Phineas Barnum, don't you _dare_ say this is your fault." Phillip's vehemence silences the thought as it forms. "Get your ass in this bed and beguile me with your fantastical yarns, so your mind doesn't have the opportunity to plague you with self-disparaging lies."

Phineas can't help the smile that Phillip's no-nonsense, charming and winsome in its own way, incites.

Oh, had he lost him…

"Yes, darling. Of course. Just, uh…"

"'Just'?" Phillip implores.

An idea sails into harbor despite the storm and fog embroiling Phineas's thoughts. He stalls as it docks, adopting proper dramatic flair when the ship's sole galvanizing passenger leads him to the other side of the room. "I want to share with you an _extraordinary_ machine. One whose blueprints were recovered by the great J. W. Mercantile."

"'J.W. Mercantile'," Phillip repeats, his tone a questioning but indulgent drawl, easily falling into the role of curious patron.

"Yes! One and the same." Phineas finds his "wishing machine" stored in a trunk, and presents it to Phillip with all of the affected wonder and mysticism which he showcased it to Caroline and Helen. "Tell it your wishes," he cajoles, "any wish your heart could possibly desire, and…" He gives the device a perfectly timed spin. The candlelight within emanates through the sequences of patterned holes in the cylindrical centerpiece, dancing on the walls and across Phillip's face, accentuating his cheekbones and unparalleled blue eyes.

A vision of otherworldly beauty that Phineas wants to behold for all eternity.

"It will keep them safe until they come true," Phineas finishes.

"Is that so?" Phillip quirks his eyebrows, a sliver of a smile, more wonderstruck than either of them anticipated, tugging at his lips.

"Leonardo da Vinci certainly believed so when he created it. And, who are we to doubt his genius?"

"Indeed." Eyes shining, with good humor and affection unmistakable, and something else Phineas can't quite read, Phillip shifts- an invitation for Phineas to settle in beside him.

Phineas is all too glad to accept it. "Go ahead," he encourages, offering the "machine" to his partner. "Share your wish."

Skepticism tempered by love, and maybe more than a shade of weariness from the harrowing events of the day, Phillip leans in with only a shadow of his cynical smirk, pausing to murmur when his face is no more than centimeters from Phineas's, "I wish my obstinate and impulsive partner would take a moment, every now and then, to realize that he has saved me-- In more ways than he could ever know. And, that I don't blame him for anything. Except for the time he smacked a horse on the haunches to spur her forward and startled the poor animal so badly, she bolted straight out of the tent."

With another laugh, much less strangled and much more genuine, one that Phillip echoes, Phineas captures Phillip's lips, relishing the smile he feels against his mouth.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5.

They part and Phineas says, more to Phillip than his mythical machine, "My wish is for you to keep breathing. Live life to its fullest. That fire didn't claim you, and I'll be damned if anything else will."

"That's a rather impractical wish," Phillip says softly. Carefully. Solicitous.

"Those are the best kind." Nudging at Phillip's nose with the tip of his own, Phineas is drawn into a second kiss. A third. These kisses never ascend to a peak of passion, remaining languorous even as lower bodies enmesh, as if Phineas and Phillip have all the time in the world to simply _be_ with each other, hands exploring familiar and well-loved terrain at a leisurely pace, no intention of sparking anything more than love and comfort and contentment.

It's warm and pure. Tranquil. No struggling, straining, or fighting. 

Clasping Phineas's hand, holding it over his heart, Phillip drifts off to sleep snuggled into Phineas's chest. And, as light from the wishing machine washes over the walls from where it sits on a nearby table, dappled glow on beige paint and cream and ivory bedding a safe haven of warmth and illumination, offering shelter from the cold blues and impenetrable blacks of darkness outside, Phineas joins Phillip in slumber.

He nods off with his nose buried in Phillip's hair, Phillip held tight to his breast and the sound of Phillip's breathing- precious, perfect, _everything_ \- a reassurance that both of their wishes have been granted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few addenda:
> 
> \- Zac Efron can curl his tongue. This may or may not be Phillip's hidden skill specified in prompt #20.
> 
> \- _Coup de Foudre_ is a French term defined as; "a thunderbolt", and "love at first sight".
> 
>  
> 
> I wish the safest and happiest of holidays to all of you, and hope to see you in 2019. May your days be merry and bright, and may the brightest colors always fill your heads. ❤️


End file.
